


Clint Barton is: Not Really Sure What's Going on (Truth), and a Very Wordy Person (Lie)

by Weaver_of_Words



Series: Clint Barton is: Into Inanimate Metal Objects (Truth), Dealing with Living with the Avengers (Lie) [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bruce almost Hulks out but doesn't, Bruce does, Clint doesn't know what a jicama is, Clint wants rougher sex but doesn't think Bruce does, Deepthroating, Glasses, Glasses kink, Hair-pulling, Humor, Kissing, Laundry, Like really really does, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Somehow, makeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weaver_of_Words/pseuds/Weaver_of_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a blowjob is significantly more important than figuring out what the hell is going on. And about a million times more important than grocery shopping.</p><p>But he still needs laundry soap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint Barton is: Not Really Sure What's Going on (Truth), and a Very Wordy Person (Lie)

I'm not really sure how I ended up so far into Bruce's space or why the expression in his eyes is something that I'm not quite comfortable with. I don't know what it is but I know it's not the most important thing. Bruce is the most important thing. 

I step closer. We're practically chest to chest, and my height means I'm looking down into his face, staring through his glasses into his eyes, open and staring straight back up at me. I don't move too fast. Not at all, really. I barely move my head, just the slightest tilt and then there’s a lot happening. Bruce's hand is in my shirt, our lips are pressed together crushingly hard, I'm leaning down just slightly, my eyes still open, staring at Bruce. His eyes have closed but I can't stop staring. I've had things about people's eyes before, but this isn't that. This is something else. Why do I care?

My hand gets into Bruce's shirt, tangles into it. I press harder into the kiss, our teeth clack. My eyes still stay locked on his, struggling to focus because he's so close. But I don't close them other than to blink so very quickly every once in awhile.

I try to remember the last time I breathed, but I can't.

I pull back to take a slightly gaspy breath. Bruce follows suit, sucking in that one breath, that one gasp with dark lips. He blinks, exposing growing pupils.

I realize suddenly that I'm hard in my pants, that Bruce is too, pressed against me. That we're crushed together, aroused, breathing sporadically, alone and I realize that I want desperately to fuck Bruce.

He’s the one to rush forward this time, and teeth clack immediately. I kiss back and roll my hips against him and he makes a pleased little sound that still manages to set my teeth on edge, makes me want him under me but tells me that maybe that is a bad idea. Maybe even a Bad Idea™.

But I need more. More than a rough little jolt of hips, more than a drag of denim and cotton. I growl, my teeth coming together as I respond. Bruce's lower lip catches between them, and I'd feel bad for hurting him if his weight didn't shift into me, if he didn't groan slightly. I let his lip free, think about asking him to move for me. Know that I should ask him to move for me, but I don’t. I push his shoulder down and he just sinks down and that’s, well, that’s something I never thought I’d see and that makes it better. And _damn_ I want him in a desperate, dark, hungry way. And seeing him kneeling before me, his bruise-dark lips open, breaths coming smoothly, calmly, is not helping. At all. He turns his face up to me, his glasses sliding slightly towards his eyes.

And that's it.

The glasses. The fucking glasses. The fucking glasses, so much like the fucking dog tags that tormented me for months--that still do, less so now, with time, but it’s still enough to make day-to-day life a bit of hell, especially now that Tony is picking up on it, connecting the time that I ‘found’ Steve's dog tags after he ‘lost’ them and the way I’m sure I stare. I snap back to reality, and yes, this is good because this is real, not some fantasy that I entertain simply to keep myself sane.

I reach down, I push them further, touch his face. His eyes move to take in the image of my cock, close in front of him and hard under my jeans. His hands get in between his face and my pants, and my breath catches as I force myself to not move into it. I fight to control that one little half breath, out through my teeth and in, more evenly. He’s barely flushed even on his cheeks, and his glasses are still perched--admittedly somewhat precariously, but not more than they are typically--on his nose and I want to _ruin_ him.

I groan as he lets my cock out. It stands out from my body, almost resting on his face, and I'm fighting the urge to push his head back and use his mouth. Use him like I really want to. I want to force his head back, spread his lips over my cock, push into him so fast he can't fight it, keep going, push into his throat, keep going and going until I have to still every time I bottom out, have to wait a bit so I don't cum, so when I finally do it will be just as good as I'm imagining it. But I don't.

Instead I push slowly. I don't even enter his mouth at first, just slide my cock across his face, and accidentally push his glasses slightly askew. He reaches up to try to put them back on his nose properly, but I stop him easily. I like seeing them like that, knowing that I did that.

I roll my hips back and push them forward again. Bruce's tongue pushes upward, the slightest little change in position that sends sparks skittering through my belly, raking my insides with heat as it slides along the underside of my cock.

It's a pretty picture, Bruce with fading bruises on his lips, glasses halfway on, face upturned, my cock resting hard on his face, but I want the darkened lips saliva slick, stretched, the eyes dampened, leaking, the mouth full, muffling the choked off little noises that I know he'll be making even if I can't hear them.

I start slowly because I know that the man below me is dangerous. I angle myself in and push shallowly at first, feeling the way that my cock presses chapped lips apart and the head gets the slightest suggestion of teeth. I want to grab his hair and yank and make him whine and-no. I don't. I push my hand back through my hair, drag fingernails slightly as I let it drop back to my side. He looks so good it’s getting hard to keep myself calm and collected.

I place my hand on his head, push it gently to the right angle and push shallowly again. His lips open for me and seal back over me, pressing in against the base of the head just so as his tongue does something amazingly light. I don't dig my fingers into the curls beneath them. It takes an amazing amount of willpower, but I don't.

Instead I pull out, savoring the slow drag and push in again. Slightly further this time, I watch more of my cock disappear between his lips. I want to know how much he can take, so I keep pushing. I’m not even halfway in when he moves his head forward, and suddenly I'm completely hilted in his throat and I'm gasping at the sensation. When I feel him work his throat I'm worried that I'll cum already. Bruce stifles a cough that, in passing my cock, turns to a gag. He turns his eyes up to me. They are watering just so slightly and his glasses are becoming more and more off centered with every moment. I pull back when the toe-curling moment of sheer overpowering pleasure passes, and Bruce's tongue moves to lick a stripe over my entire cock as it passes, and I see his nostrils flare with a breath as soon as I slide out of his throat. I pull all the way back out, though I really do want to just push back in. I push his head back so he's looking up at me, rest my cock on his face again, wet and hard enough that veins are starting to show.

The darkness on his lips is almost gone already, and I wish that it wasn't. It's such a nice look on him, the colour on his lips matching the look in his eyes. But then again, it's not like I couldn't put it back.

I push his head back down and cup my hand around the back of his skull to pull him in closer. I mean to press his face to my cock and hold him there, but he moves just right and I’m back in his mouth, pulling him down onto me before I can think about it and _fucckk_.

I slide into his throat without even the slightest hitch. He swallows and he's _good_. I look down and his eyes are closed behind his glasses. I keep my hand on the back of his head and let him take whatever he wants, and he wants it slow but as deep as he can have it--which is all the way. I want it fast and hard and rough, but the things he's doing are fucking good, the difference in our styles doesn't keep me from groaning and pushing my free hand through my hair again. He's keeping beautiful suction with his mouth, and when I tear my eyes from his face I can see that he has a hand in his pants.

He pulls back to take a breath, tips his head back to look up at me and sets his glasses further into the tilt that they’ve gotten. He gives a short breath as the only warning before he comes back for more, little bobs of his head this time, short, never taking in more than half of my cock and that sparkle in his eyes is waking something _dangerous_ that was laying low in my stomach.

I tell myself that he wants what I want, that neither of us is sure enough to ask but both are sure enough to want, but I cannot think it through. Good coffee sometimes puts my brain out of commission for a minute, and his mouth, _fuck_ , his mouth will have me reeling for days.

So I take it.

It's stupid and dangerous and stupid but it's also so damn good when I push in so fast and he gags and I feel the little flutter of his fingers on my thighs before they latch on, pull me in closer and I have never ever had my cock so deep inside someone's mouth before and my fingers claw into his hair, I realize I'm pulling too hard but he fucking--I don’t even know what he does but holy hell it’s awesome--and I feel the vibration through my entire cock, but the pleasure reverberates through my entire being, the pure, unadulterated heat of it is the only thing I can feel.

I’m not sure what I scream, but I’m sure even Stark would be blushing, the fucker, but he’d be saying the same thing if he could only feel the way the Bruce’s fingers hold tight to my thighs, the way that his hair feels between my fingers, the way he moves his tongue under my cock, the way his throat moves as he makes inarticulate noises. Hell, even just looking at him, with his eyes squeezed tight shut, tears gathering slowly at the corners, lips pressed apart, hair coiled messily, glasses askew, is heaven and lord knows Tony likes to look.

I grip his hair and another moan vibrates through me as I start moving in earnest because hot damn I know the signals my body is giving and the signals are all saying that I'm about twelve seconds away from a really good orgasm.

He gasps little fractions of breaths as I fuck into and out of his face and I’m alternating between thoughts like ‘ahhhHH that’s _good_ ’ as Bruce wrings out pleasure I didn't even know that I could feel and ‘shit, I think I’m out of laundry soap’ as I try desperately to not cum immediately. But I know that no amount of laundry soap can hold off the wave that is threatening to crash over me, so I finally have to pull out of his mouth.

I pull his head back by his hair and from the way his mouth stays open and his throat shifts I can tell that he’s moaning and his hand is working his cock, out of his pants now, and I realize that he’s going to come too. I work myself roughly, fast and hard and imagine cumming over his face and I do. It’s sharp and sudden and oh so good. My brain goes fuzzy for just a minute as I look down at him, hair out of place, lips wet, breath as rough as I think is safe, glasses askew and best of all, cum over it all, the glasses, his lips, everything.

I curl my fingers a little deeper into his hair and appreciate the way his eyes glass over a little. I tug gently and he stands. He’s so pliant when he’s like this. My fingers are still in his hair and I wonder if earlier when I’d pulled on it, if that had been what made him make that amazing moan. I try again and his eyes close, his hand stills on his cock and he cums just like that. I look down to see it but when I look up his face has changed, he’s angry now. I can see it in his eyes. I try to release his hair but I only pull more, and his reaction this time is violent and angry.

I manage to free my hand and step back, scrub it over my face, still watching him and trying desperately to remember what to do but my head is so full of other things that I can’t remember. So full of what was I thinking? So full of I fucked everything up, he was not in control, how could I have done that, how had this happened, why had I let myself do anything so stupid, and how had it gotten this far before I realized that something was wrong, how and why and nonononono

Bruce has one hand hovering over my hand, not quite touching, and he's kneeling beside the couch where I'm burrowed for my nap and he's there. He's there and calm and collected and very much not creepy and dangerous. A breath sighs out of me and I realize that I'm tensed under the blanket tossed haphazardly over me. I relax bit by bit and Bruce does too.

“I figured you might want to be up by now.” His voice is calm and very much not gravely from my cock.  


Not real. It wasn’t real. None of it, the blowjob, the hulking out, the orgasm--no, wait, the orgasm was real--nothing but the orgasm was real. I had a wet dream about a guy in the same room as me. It’s somehow worse, I think, than the thing about Steve’s dog tags, especially because when I see Bruce push his glasses up his nose my brain jumps to remind me what they’d look like with my cum on them. I do not have time for this shit. Especially because it’s… Two in the afternoon. Ugh.

I have a basket in one hand and a scrawled list written on the palm of the other, and I'm standing in front of the lists for what is on each aisle. I have everything off the list--milk, tortillas, bread, mustard, something vaguely potato-like that Pepper asked for, and another feather toy for Thor’s little kitten--but something is nagging me. There's something I forgot. I glance over the signs one more time and give up. I'll just get it when I remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I'd love any and all comments you would care to leave!
> 
> Till next time, Weaver_of_Words


End file.
